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  • Old Guild Username: Alvynear
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    1. Mirth 11 yrs ago

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Appearance: Her skin tanned from years of wrestling bears and tearing the heads off of trolls, Maerdan is fairly dark for a Bosmer. She is a sturdy-looking woman of medium height with broad shoulders and wide hips. Her dark brown hair is styled in a short hawk with shaved sides.

Name: Maerdan Bavaril

Gender: Female

Age: 56 (~late twenties, for a non-Mer)

Race: Bosmer

Birthsign: The Lady (Skyrim Variant)

Personality: Fierce, physically strong, and constantly on the look-out for a brawl, Maerdan is anything but the typical Wood Elf. While she enjoys sneaking circles around opponents while shooting them in the naughty bits, she is much fonder of exploding their skulls with a well-placed blow from her hammer. She has a disconcerting habit of charging anything especially large and dangerous to see how long it takes for her to kill it. If anyone follows her, they tend to keep to a safe distance so they can observe the carnage.

Backstory: Maerdan’s earliest memories were of the wilds of Skyrim, hunting and fishing to sustain herself. She remembers little of her family, if anything at all, but is rarely bothered by it. She’s been alone and will be alone, in her mind, and while there are enemies to stomp and dungeons to spelunk she’s happy.

A rover by trade and by nature, Maerdan is often all over Tamriel in search of adventure and the next handful of Septims. She’ll occasionally take odd jobs for extra coin and to alleviate her boredom: mainly muscle-type operations where she’s needed to look intimidating and hit things with her hammer. She prefers working for herself, however, and has for many years. It will be strange for her to work with more than a single other person.

Skills: Proficient in Two-Handed weaponry, Heavy-Armor, Stealth, and Smithing. Her Hand-to-Hand is competent, as is her Archery, although she prefers her hammer to a bow. She is extremely strong and capable of crushing larger opponents with ease. Her magical skills are… lacking. While she can occasionally cast some Destruction in a pinch, she’s much better off just punching the threat into unconsciousness.

Equipment: A set of dented, heavily-scarred steel armor, a lovingly cared-for Orcish warhammer, an Orcish bow and arrows, and more potions than the average alchemical shop. She’s enchanted most of it to up her Health Points, Two-Handed skill, and Heavy-Armor skill.
I will post my character sheet shortly. I am a Bosmer with a warhammer. Beware.
Personally, I'm most fond of the UESP-- they seem to have more information.
>is the co-GM<
Mizuki overbalanced the boy, shoving him back, and sprang to her feet. Her side was blazing with pain, agony bolting through her ribs as she tossed her hair back and lunged again. Mochi was beside her, clawing and yowling like a miniature tiger. If she had been thinking—and at this point she wasn’t—she would have thought how happy she was that Mochi was with her. Dangerous situation or not, there was no one in the world she would rather face this battle with. Sucking in a breath, she bared her teeth.

The blows were coming slower now and farther between as the crowd thinned and the beaten fell. Mizuki was squaring off with two foes, neither of which seemed keen on getting close. They were dodging back and forth, looking for openings, but she had managed to work them into a narrow space between a tall dumpster and a boarded-up shop. Her fingers twitched and she stepped into a punch that the thug wove under and the momentum carried her shoulder into his teeth. Stunned, he dropped back, as Mizuki turned on the remainder. The shoulder hadn’t been intentional, but it had worked and that was all that mattered.

Mochi sank his needle-sharp teeth into the boy’s leg. The boy tried to kick him away; after a few attempts he managed to knock the ghostly cat away. Mizuki had advanced in the intervening seconds, wrapping both hands firmly around the boy’s throat and ramming his back into the concrete wall. She shoved, hard, then pulled him back and smashed him into the wall again. He dropped limply to the ground.

The girl and the cat backed off, forming a rough triangle with the redhead and the dark-haired boy. Mochi, perched on Mizuki’s shoulder, pushed his head against her ear. He could sense the end of the melee, even as the assailants stumbled to their feet and lurched away at an unsteady pace. Eyes slitted, Mizuki watched them go. She made no move to follow.

At some point in the fight her wounds had begun to throb less, had gone from bursts of knife-edged pain to muted pulses of discomfort. She felt under her uniform for the ribs she knew she had broken—her fingers froze mid-probe. There was no fracture. She had felt the bone give way and had resigned herself to a trip to the hospital. Brows knit, Mizuki removed her hand and turned to her impromptu allies.

The boy with the slick black hair introduced himself as Kurohana Ibuki. As far as Mizuki remembered, he went to her school, but she wasn’t certain if he was in her class. The other boy, Hitashi Smith, seemed leery of Kurohana.

The silence stretched on for a beat before she cleared her throat. “My name is Ikino Mizuki.”
Cy blinked at him sleepily; she had been dozing in the chair with her legs drawn up to her chest. "Huh? To make sure you're alright," she finally said, her voice slow and laden with fatigue. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she pushed to her feet and rolled the blankets up around Loki's neck. "Want more blankets? I can go hunt some up, if you want." She returned to the chair and sat down with a thump. She folded her arms across her chest to wait for his answer.

Arc groaned and adjusted his bullet-proof vest. "Thor cares too much about that kid. Loki's bad news; always has been, always will be." He blew a long breath out through his nose. "Well, I'm heading into the barracks to hit the hay. You staying up much longer?" He pushed off the chair and rotated his shoulder. It popped audibly. He winced and walked away from Wilson; it was nearly midnight, and it was time to go to sleep. The next morning he could reassess the situation, maybe fortify the hospital room to make sure Loki didn't get any cute ideas. Lumbering to the elevators, he waved one last time and pushed the button to shut the doors.
Matt’s eyes had begun to clear and his gaze gained brightness and cognizance the longer he focused on Audrey. She was telling stories about Noah, stories he remembered from far in the back of his mind, things Noah had mentioned when they talked at night.

The automaton that had left the funeral with them died and Matthias Trousdale straightened his spine and gritted his teeth; grief wasn’t done with him but he would face it now. He could face it now. He was drawing strength from his friends, from Arty’s ferocity and Nate’s soulfulness and Audrey’s cheerful tenacity. “Noah’ll be alright,” Matt said, his voice gritty from disuse. His throat was sore. Bowing his head, he swallowed and continued, “Whatever happens, don’t leave again.” If it was selfish, he didn’t care. His fingers clamped on his knees but he forced himself to look up again, to meet the looks he felt them sending his way.

He vaguely remembered stumbling out of the apartment, crashing shoulder-first into the opposite wall and staggering down the steps. Some part of him had been screaming that he needed to go home and he had heeded it mindlessly. Matt had almost fallen down the stairs before he made it outside, and, disoriented with pain, had reeled across the street into the side of a parked sedan. For almost an hour he had leaned against it, and then he had walked unsteadily towards the highway to Eaton.

The next thing he recalled with any clarity was Ross’s face hovering over him, and then smothering nothingness. He had been glad for it, in the end.

Against his knee, Matt’s fingers twitched at the memory and he rolled them into a fist. He was dizzy, but it wasn’t bad, and he sat back in the waiting room chair to recover. When was the last time he ate? Had the Logans been taking care of him again? Had Mrs. Logan been feeding him and making him drink? Matt shook his head faintly and refocused on the others.

Arty, who had been prodding experimentally at her wounds, turned incredulous eyes on Matt. “You with us?”

“Mm,” Matt grunted an affirmative and tipped his head in a nod. It was hard to keep engaged; the oblivion was still so close. He shut his eyes tight. Feeling everything was exhausting after a week of mechanical anesthetization.

Arty slapped him, hard, in the back of the head with her cast.

Fuck!” Matt bolted forward out of his seat and almost tripped into Audrey’s lap. He caught himself on the armrests of her chair and spun to glare at Arty. “What the fuck?” Someone, a nurse probably, tried to politely shush him, but he was too busy glowering at Arty to hear or care.

“Are you awake now? Are you a functioning human being?” She asked, folding her arms across her chest as she leaned on the wall near the water cooler.

“What was that for? Jesus.” He rubbed the area, which ached, but couldn’t feel any real damage. It hurt like a son of a bitch, though. Classic Arty, punching something to solve a problem.
I won't be able to reply until Monday. Got some stuff going on, no time to really do much of anything besides pass out at the end of the day.
There's some personal stuff going on; a family member went into the hospital and I got a week-long job. It's consuming most of my time, so it'll probably be Monday before I get to reply. I'm sorry about the wait ;_;
Waiting for news from the hospital. My aunt went in yesterday.
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